Don't Touch Brazil's Flag (Rewrite)
by Neathra
Summary: Rewrite of Don't Touch Brazil's Flag: During a more boring than usual World Summit, Brazil sees someone cut down her flag.


**So, I went through and fixed the perspective, and tense issues. And made Brazil a little less like an immature teenager, and more like a actual adult. Even if she does think kicking soccer balls at people is a good solution!**

* * *

I struggled to keep my eyes open. Why am I so damn tired today? It couldn't just be Portugal's continuous drowning on about his stupid sheep. Just like America made a fool of himself every meeting, Portugal would always spend far too long extrapolating on the virtues of those fuzzy knock-off llamas. I stifled another yawn. I'd never felt so needlessly tired before.

It only took a glance at my watch proved that yes, Portugal had completely exceeded Germany's hard maximum of eight minutes for a speech. Usually, the gruff nation would have furiously cut across the other country's commentary, but my drowsiness seemed to be contagious.

I couldn't even rely on America to liven things up a bit. Thanks to a combination of an undiagnosed headache, and full body aches from that wacky storm system, America had been forced to go lay down. Without America present to help France drive up England's blood pressure, the meeting had been rather quiet and slow. It was too bad it wasn't February – I couldn't just whip my shirt off and blame Carnival during August.

Fortunately, I seemed to have allies in 'Stop Portugal talking about off-brand llamas' department. Twirling his hair, Poland spoke up.

"Dude. Portugal just like totally went over the time limit."

With un-characteristic laziness, Germany grumbled "Alright, Portugal wrap it up." The sleepiness was certainly spreading – Germany hadn't even raised his voice past that of an irritated teacher.

Even with Portugal finally finishing up his speech, my total attention was gone. Eyes drifted to the windows outlooking the building's front, just in time to watch my flag go toppling past the windows to the group.

With an indignant squeal, I jumped up from my seat, stormed over to the window, and threw it open. Then sticking head and shoulder's out of the window, I furiously searched the ground down below on the pavement, was a crazy blonde swinging a scythe around and complaining at a tall guy in a suit.

Culprit identified, I screamed at the top of my lungs,

_"Que diabos seu bastardo! Essa era a minha bandeira! Como você ousa cortá-la! O que você tem contra minha amiga bandeira?!"_

I was so angry I'd slipped back into Portuguese.

The screaming had the desired effect of getting Crazy Blonde to notice me, but it also attracted the attention a of the rest of the mob surrounding him.

I was distracted by the Crazy Blonde's emerging murderous aura – Considering England, did all blonde men have one? – by Germany calling me back inside.

"Brazil come back in! It's your turn to speak" Ignoring the whispers breaking out through the army I quickly pulled my head back into the building, slamming the window shut behind me. After making a quick note to press America to replace the flag ASAP, I turned to face the rest of the conference room. What felt like a too sweet smile formed on my lips.

"My topic for today, is Llamas, and why they are a thousand times better than sheep."

After the meeting was over, I would be heading out to find Crazy Blonde. I couldn't go now: Germany might be ok with the walking disruption that was America excusing himself, but he might actually suffer a heart attack if anyone else excused themselves from the world meeting. Nobody was willing to test and see if heart attacks where fatal for us countries.

Besides, revenge is best served cold, preferably by my favorite goal scoring fútbol kick, and I'd left my fútbol back in my hotel room…

Once the meeting was over, swung by my hotel and retrieved the fútbol. I had seen people moving down toward the Empire State Building.

Once I reached the main doors, I found my progress blocked by a huge crowd. It was same mob that had been following Crazy Blonde around. On closer examination it seemed that some of the protesters where in their late teens. Others seemed fuzzy, and blurry. What the heck was up with my contacts?

But my focus was mostly on locating a clear line of fire to Crazy Blonde. It took a little scouting, but I was soon able to find a fairly clear shot. The path was partially blocked by a short kid wearing an eye patch, but as mentioned he was short, and I could aim over him. Ready, I placed my fútbol on the ground and after taking a moment to aim, I took a couple steps back and after a running start I sent the ball flying through the air.

It was a beautiful kick. My boss would have been proud. And, as expected, it flew through the air, over eyepatches head and directly into Crazy Blonde's. He staggered for a moment, before landing heavily on his behind.

I whooped, jumping up and down, and shouted

"Oh! That will teach you to mess with my flag!", while clapping my hands excitedly. I froze upon realizing that the entire mob was looking dumbfoundedly at me. Time to go. Before either they, or Crazy Blonde could respond, I turned and ran, weaving between stalled cars, and buildings until I'd left the Empire State Building far behind me.


End file.
